


Taking Care

by fluffernutter8



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Sickfic, Steggy Week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25404718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffernutter8/pseuds/fluffernutter8
Summary: Peggy gets sick. Steve shows up to help.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 18
Kudos: 93





	Taking Care

Peggy’s immune system is notably strong and she’s far more likely to be the one nursing others than to need nursing herself. But this means that when she actually does start feeling under the weather, she ignores it, certain that it will simply pass or that she can overcome it by sheer force of will.

She’s actually able to pull it off for a few days, but once her eyes start watering so much that it takes her three times as long as usual to read anything and her coughs and sniffles become the soundtrack of headquarters, Phillips tells her that the war isn’t going to be lost if she takes a few days off to get well and sends her home.

“Perhaps I am a bit under the weather, but I can stil—” she begins in protest but when she needs to take out her handkerchief partway through the sentence, Phillips simply points her toward the door and she actually complies.

She manages to fall asleep for several hours before waking jerkily, somehow less rested, her head muddled. The thought of food appeals not at all, but she is absolutely parched; she lies for much longer than she would ever admit trying to convince her body to stand and go to the tap.

Tea sounds absolutely wonderful at the moment but she can’t guarantee that she won’t fall asleep at the tiny table while the water comes to a boil, so she contents herself with several glasses of water. She is turning to return to bed when there’s a knock at the door.

Peggy doesn’t typically receive visitors here - in fact, she barely receives _herself_ in the tiny efficiency she’s been renting for the past months. There’s a war on, after all, and she essentially uses this as somewhere to catch a few hours’ sleep before returning to headquarters. She isn’t even certain that anyone knows this address. Then again, it would be just typical of today to have someone coming to inform her of a fire or a gas leak while she’s in this state.

But to her surprise, when she calls a polite if stuffed-up, “Who is it?” through the door, the response is, “Steve Rogers.”

“I thought you were in Amsterdam,” she says, opening up and stepping back (it comes out as “Absterdam;” Phillips really was probably right to send her home.)

“We were until this morning,” he responds, following her inside and closing the door behind himself. “Only got back a couple of hours ago, but when I went to track you down with some documents, they said that you’d gone home sick so I—” Fully inside now, he peers at her more closely, and she thinks she should probably be embarrassed, but she barely has the energy to hold her dressing gown closed around her body so more complex emotion will have to wait.

“Right,” he says, his tone changing to a decisive firmness. “Okay. Back to bed.”

“But I—” she protests, mostly out of habit. The thought of even the thin single bed that came with the flat is so tempting that it should be featured in a Greek myth.

“I don’t think so.” He reaches over and gently touches her shoulders with both enormous hands, turning her around and directing her over to sleep.

“You aren’t meant to boss me around,” she tries, but it comes out around a yawn.

“I’ll keep it in mind for the future,” he says, and even through her muzzy head, she thinks there’s affection in his voice. “But maybe just listen for now, huh? I’m kind of the expert.”

The memory of that very lengthy file of his from boot camp comes into her head, but she can’t hold the thought there. Before she even has time to pull up the blanket, she’s crumpled into sleep.

When she wakes up again she isn’t certain of the time, though she feels much more clear-headed overall. A glass of water sits beside the bed, and she manages to sit up (the blanket slides off as she does; apparently someone put it on her) and drink it down without much dizziness.

“I can get you another,” comes Steve’s voice. “Or I can try my hand at a cup of tea.”

She looks around and finds him sitting at the table - the only place to sit, really - with a newspaper in front of himself. She clears her throat. “Do you have any experience with that?” The words come out clearly, which she considers a fairly good sign.

“Not really. It’ll probably be a good thing that you can’t taste much.”

“I’m actually—” she considers, realizing it with surprise for the first time herself. “I actually feel a bit peckish.”

“Good sign,” he says, standing. “Just a minute.”

“I don’t have very much here at the moment,” she points out, and then feels compelled by some lesson of hospitality or politeness or normalcy which her mother tried to impart to her to add, “I’m not about often. I usually end up in the mess back at headquarters or finding a bit to eat on the way between here and there.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not as if I could cook you up anything edible even if you had a full fridge,” he says easily teasing, as he comes over to her with a bowl of consomme and a saucer with a bread roll sliced thin and slightly charred from toasting it over the open flame of the stove. He hands her the bowl, places the roll beside the clock on the nightstand.

She studies him more carefully as he brings one of the kitchen chairs closer to her bedside. He had arrived in full uniform, but now his jacket hangs on the back of the chair he had been occupying, his sleeves are rolled to the elbow and he has his tie loosened. His hair is a bit disheveled. He looks wonderful, and she tries to forget how wrecked she must come off just now.

“Where did this come from, then?” she asks, taking a careful spoonful of the broth. It is a touch salty, noticeably warm but no longer steaming, and feels wonderful moving down her throat. She takes another sip.

“I ran over to the place around the corner. Told them I had a sick friend, and they threw in the roll for free.”

 _A sick friend._ She rolls the words around in her head as she bites gingerly and thoughtfully into one of the small rounds of toast. Thinking of herself as sick is unfamiliar but it’s currently true and she can accept it as fact. Friend, though…

She and Steve have been courteous to each other since the incident with Private Lorraine, but don’t spend extra time together. Sometimes, though, their eyes will meet across the table during a strategy session, or they’ll each choose to deliver something to the other that isn’t strictly their responsibility. Just in those occasional moments, when she allows it, she remembers how determined he is, how quietly funny, how sharp and kind.

She thinks it might actually be nice to become real friends with Steve, but she doesn’t know that she’ll be able to forget the time when she thought that they might become something more, doesn’t know that she can stop herself from still hoping for the future.

“You must be a bit of an expert in the sickbed experience,” she says, eager to change the topic, only realizing once she has that it might be rude or bring up painful memories. Thankfully, however, Steve only laughs.

“It’s a little strange to have nearly gotten through winter with nothing happening. I keep expecting the flu or a nice case of pneumonia to sneak up on me.” His face twists into a slight sadness. “I was lucky, though, back then. My mother took really good care of me. Made sure I always had books and pencils, someone to call for if she had to work, soup and crackers when I needed them...A couple of times, when things had been really bad, she got me an orange. We couldn’t afford it and I know that she missed dinners because of it, but she insisted on it so that—so that when I could taste again, that would be the flavor waking me up.”

The soup glides over the tenderness growing in her throat. Here, again, is the reminder of why Erskine was drawn to him, why _she’s_ been drawn to him: because without considering otherwise, he uses the protection given by the serum to help those who need it, because he won’t ever forget the way it felt to eat an orange gifted by someone who scrimped and hurt for it but did it anyway because she loved him.

“I don’t expect you were the most compliant patient, if you’re being truthful,” she comments once she’s swallowed.

“What tipped you?” he says, mouth curling up into a grin. He spreads his hands. “I would have been an angel and stayed in bed, but when one person works twelve hour days, it's up to the other person to make sure the house is clean. Plus, Bucky's team really needed a second baseman."

She laughs too, though it turns into a bit of a cough at the end. As she catches her breath, she looks into the dwindling depths of her bowl. "I'm reminded just now," she says, "of how hard it can be to ask for the help you need, to give up control and let someone take care of you on occasion."

There's a quiet in the room with them, a ticking clock silence. Then Steve says slowly, "That's always been pretty hard for me too. But I think it's something I could get good at if I had the chance. If I came across the right person."

When she looks up, he's already there waiting for her with a steady gaze. An understanding passes between them, but after what's happened before, she needs more than that.

"I think it's something I could learn as well. Leaning on someone." She reaches over, covers his hand with hers. "I hope we both have the chance for it."

"So do I," he says softly, holding on until she yawns again. "Okay," he says. "Time to sleep again, I think. Doctor's orders, probably."

She screws up her face, but is actually tired enough to comply, lying down and letting him clear away her dishes to wash.

"I'll stay around until you wake up," is the last thing she registers before she drifts off. And even though she knows he must have a thousand things to do over at headquarters, when she wakes once again, he is still there, just as he is each time after.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 2 of Steggy Week 2020. Prompt: Tropes, cliches, and symbols
> 
> (I work with tropes often, so I was glad to be able to come up with one I haven't done before!)


End file.
